Tuesday, September 08, 2015

I think I've finally burned myself out on books about organizing. I really hate this, because for so many months, they have soothed and comforted me. I have read them on a train, I have read them on a plane...

A couple of nights ago, I was reading Discardia by Dinah Sanders. I was reading in bed, right before going to sleep. Suddenly, I noticed an anxiety blooming out of nowhere. My heart was beating fast and I was biting the inside of my cheek. As I read on, it seemed as if too much information was coming at me too quickly and I needed to put up mental hands to shield myself; to dodge the onslaught. Finally, all the words turned into gibberish, and I had to quit.

Turning off my Kindle, I drifted into an uneasy sleep that was patchy and full of discomforts that came at me in a sort of cha-cha-cha rhythm: Hot/thirsty/need to pee. Hot/thirsty/need to pee...

In one of the intervals when I could sleep, I dreamed that the apartment was clean. Gleaming and beautiful. Free of clutter. I invited people over, showing them around. I marveled at each room as they oohed and ahhed. As I ushered them into my bedroom, I noticed a foul smell. Noisome! (I've always wanted to use that word.) Somehow a dog dropping as long as my foot (shoe size 8) had attached itself to my shoe and I was leaving long feathery streaks of poo in my wake. The smell was overpowering and my eyes were watering for a couple of reasons. No one seemed to notice. I was frantically trying to figure out how to get to the Febreeze when I woke up sweating.

After all that, I just couldn't go back to Discardia. It's not Dinah Sanders; it's me. My predilection for cleaning and organizing books is broken. Irretrievably? I'm not sure. At this point, I think not even Marie Kondo could save me.